It was a glorious evening. The boat had sped without prelude into sunshine. The sky was cloudless, the earth gold, and gulls were riding up and down on the furrowed waters. On the bank they had left were some sand-dunes rising to majestic hills; on the bank in front was a farm, full to the brim with fire.
MR. ANDREWS
The souls of the dead were ascending towards the Judgment Seat and the Gate of Heaven. The world soul pressed them on every side, just as the atmosphere presses upon rising bubbles, striving to vanquish them, to break their thin envelope of personality, to mingle their virtue with its own. But they resisted, remembering their glorious individual life on earth, and hoping for an individual life to come.
Among them ascended the soul of a Mr. Andrews who, after a beneficent and honourable life, had recently deceased at his house in town. He knew himself to be kind, upright and religious, and though he approached his trial with all humility, he could not be doubtful of its result. God was not now a jealous God. He would not deny salvation merely because it was expected. A righteous soul may reasonably be conscious of its own righteousness and Mr. Andrews was conscious of his.
"The way is long," said a voice, "but by pleasant converse the way becomes shorter. Might I travel in your company?"
"Willingly," said Mr. Andrews. He held out his hand, and the two souls floated upwards together.
"I was slain fighting the infidel," said the other exultantly, "and I go straight to those joys of which the Prophet speaks."
"Are you not a Christian?" asked Mr. Andrews gravely.
"No, I am a Believer. But you are a Moslem, surely?"